She turned and went back to the house.

Several hours later, when she returned, the cockatoo was gone. She wondered whether it had flown into town or into the bush, and whether it would ever come back. She wondered what would happen if she tried to leave, herself. Would anyone even notice? Maybe not.

But where would she go?

Early morning. She winced into the light. Thick-headed, ears clogged and aching, throat so sore it was hard to swallow. She lay in bed all day, floating in and out of sleep, feeling like a muttonbird burrowed in a hole. Sunlight thinned and faded as she stared at the pink-flowered canopy above her head. Her throat was parched but she had no water. She felt hollowed out with hunger, but too weak to move. After a while she dozed off again, waking in a fever in the dark and tossing off her blankets before drifting back to sleep.

When she woke she was shivering, her teeth chattering. Daylight, gray this time. Rain pattering the mullioned windows. She thought of Flinders, of how the rain thrummed the roofs of the cottages. The smell of sweet grass through the open doorway, babies swaddled in wallaby skins, her mother singing, her father puffing on his pipe, blowing smoke into the gloom. Her memories drifted, changing shape. Now she was running, running through the wallaby grass on a brilliantly sunny day, up the hill to the spiny ridge, her face tilted to the sky, the sun warm on her eyelids . . .

A faint knock at the door. A voice. “Mathinna? Are ye in there?”

She opened her eyes, closed them. Too bright. Lemony. Midmorning, perhaps. Yes. She cleared her throat. Croaked, “Yes.”

The door opened. “Good lord,” Hazel said. “I knew something was wrong.”

Hazel brought Mathinna lamb broth, tea made from sassafras leaves, and a paste made of ground fenugreek seeds for her phlegmy cough. She made her gargle with salt water. She brought a pot filled with lukewarm water that she dipped towels into before wringing them out and placing them on Mathinna’s forehead and chest to cool the fever.

Feeling a trickle of water down her cheek, Mathinna opened her eyes. She looked up into Hazel’s face: the smattering of orange freckles, ginger lashes, her clear gray eyes.

“Mrs. Crain sent us back to the Cascades,” Hazel told her. “She said we’re not needed while the Franklins are away. But I knew I should come back. I had a feeling.” Leaning closer, she tucked in the blanket. The disk she wore around her neck swayed against Mathinna’s cheek.

Mathinna reached up and touched it.

“Is it bothering ye?”

“I don’t mind. I was trying to see what’s written on it.”

Hazel held it out. “It’s a number. One seventy-one. They made us wear these on the ship. So if any of us went missing, they’d know it.”

Mathinna nodded. “Did your friend go missing?”

“Well, she went overboard. So I guess she did.” Hazel removed the spongy cloth from Mathinna’s forehead and put her hand where it had been. “Fever’s down. Shut your eyes.” Draping another cloth on her forehead, she gave Mathinna a long look. “I’ll tell ye a secret. Just before she died, my friend had a baby. A girl. Ruby. She’s mine now. They’ve taken her to the Queen’s Orphan School, but I’ll get her back when I earn my ticket of leave.” She traced the blunted edge of the disk with her finger. “It’s a bad place, that orphanage.”